


But thou yet art not too late

by Zara Hemla (zarahemla)



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: F/M, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7517788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahemla/pseuds/Zara%20Hemla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's enough, Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But thou yet art not too late

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for child abuse. You can skip to section 2 with no repercussions on the story, if you are so inclined. Search for the word "Ireland."
> 
> JET, my fabulous and funny beta, is responsible for the lack of errors you see here. If there are any errors left, they could not be attributed to her, for she is perfect. They are all mine.

Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature,  
Quench not the thirst for glory, but augment.  
Great Julius, whom now all the world admires  
The more he grew in years, the more inflam’d  
With glory, wept that he had liv’d so long  
Inglorious: but thou yet art not too late.  
\--John Milton. Paradise Regain’d. (book iii, lines 37-42)  
  


**one. miami.**

“Welcome to your worst nightmare, Mr. Westen.” –- Detective Paxson, s03e02  
  
  


Michael is tall for his age, with gangly legs that show through his too-short, ripped jeans. He is wearing a cheap Metallica t-shirt and a friendship bracelet that a girl at school has given him. He is sitting on his bed, in his neat-as-a-pin room, intently studying a book of chess problems. The house is quiet, though he can hear the sound of the TV from where Nate is watching “Electric Company.” His mother is temping as a secretary at a construction company, which is good because they will have groceries this week. His father is in the garage, working on the rusted-out hulk of a Charger that he dragged home a month ago. Michael is fifteen years old.

Though Michael does not have his own chessboard, his math teacher took one out in class and showed them how each piece worked. Sometimes when they are finished with their regular worksheets, the students pair up and play chess together. Michael’s regular partner is the same girl who gave him the bracelet – Mira. Her hair is long and black and usually in a French braid. She gives him a real run for his money at chess, and when he asked her how she knew all those moves, she told him that she played chess with her father. She asked him if maybe his father would play chess with him, and he smiled at her and said, “Maybe,” although he really felt like laughing in her face, or telling her everything; neither option was really possible.

After a few games, Mira lent him a book on chess tactics, then exchanged it for one on classic opening moves. He scrounged his school library for the few books they had and is working through each puzzle in his head, and though sometimes he has to ask Mira or his teacher to help him solve a puzzle, he is quickly grasping the ideas behind chess, which have to do with planning steps slowly and carefully and sorting through all options, all while thinking many moves ahead.

Michael is deeply involved in trying to get his castle across the printed board to mate in two moves when the garage door bangs open downstairs and he hears his own name called at top volume. His head comes up and his fingers clench on the book. His father has not come into the house, but the possibility is great, and between the garage and the bedrooms is the living room, where his brother is watching TV. Michael pushes himself off the bed and stands up, making his hand reach for the knob to the door as he hears his father shout, “MICHAEL!” again.

As he moves toward the garage, he sees Nate with the remote in his hand – Nate has muted the TV and is staring at Michael with big eyes and no expression. _Should I run?_ say the eyes, and Michael shakes his head, _Not yet_. He moves past Nate and schools his expression to be as neutral as possible. He opens the back door and Frank Westen is standing in the garage doorway, watching him.

“Come on in here, Michael,” says his father with exaggerated courtesy. He waves Michael past him through the door, and Michael walks into the garage. His father is not so crass as to be disheveled or unsteady, but the garage reeks of the empty bottle of Jim Beam sitting on his father’s workbench. All of Frank’s tools are laid out on the workbench in order of size, and Michael sees at once that the 3/16” allen wrench is missing.

_Oh God_ , he thinks, somewhat on the order of a prayer or a message to someone, because he remembers handing that allen wrench to Nate to tighten a bolt on his skateboard, and Nate promising, _swearing_ , that he would put it back just where he got it.

He opens his mouth to take the blame or apologize, and his father’s first blow knocks him into the side of the car, and he bites his tongue hard, and then the second one hits him and he is flat on the floor, his face in the concrete, and his ears are ringing and he sees that underneath his father’s car, something blackish is dripping from the engine block into a puddle on the ground.

“How many times did I tell you not to touch my goddamn tools?” It’s probable that they can hear his father screaming in Broward county and in the Everglades, but Michael knows no one is going to come to his rescue. “How many times, Michael?” He hears a series of thuds and lies very still: for once, his father is hitting the car, kicking it in the tires. “How. Many. Fucking. Times?”

Michael waits for the kicks to move around to himself, but they do not. The dark goo continues its slow drip as the garage descends into silence and his mouth fills up with blood. Finally he hears a creak as his father sits down on the workbench.

“Get up,” Frank says finally. Michael is not sure his arms will work but they do and he pushes himself up off the floor of the garage and stands as still and straight as he can. He has to lock his knees because they are shaking. His whole body is shaking.

“Go find me that fucking wrench, Michael,” says his father, not looking at him. Frank is staring at the car as if he wants to apologize to it for all that tire-kicking. His hands are in his lap and curled around themselves. “Right now.”

Michael leaves the garage at a stiff-stilted walk and goes back into the kitchen. He spits the blood out of his mouth in the sink and rinses the cut in his cheek. Then he turns and regards his brother over the bar. Nate is sitting still and quiet on the couch and his eyes are filled with a familiar misery.

“I’m so sorry, Michael,” he says. “I forgot. I’m so sorry.” He has said this many times and every time he does it fills Michael’s heart up with a painful spiky sort of love and he forgives Nate every time, for every single mistake.

“It’s okay,” he says now. “Just . . . where is it?”

The wrench is in the backyard, maybe two steps from the garage, under Nate’s skateboard. Michael retrieves it and with a deep breath he goes back into the garage and sets it in its place on the felt with all the other tools. His father, who is frowning over a wiring diagram, completely ignores him.

Michael leaves the garage again, takes a few breaths of fresh air in the backyard, and stares up at the cloudy Florida sky. He can hear the rustle of birds in the palm trees, and feel the sting in his hands from where they hit the floor. In the living room again, he will put his arm around Nate and they will watch "Sesame Street" together while Nate cries on his shoulder. Michael will not cry. There is no point in it.  
  


**two. ireland.**

_But when you have to work alone again, you lock those feelings away, and you do the job at hand. Because as every spy knows, there’s plenty of time to think about what you’ve lost after the mission is over_. --s03e08  
  
  


Fiona grins and steps closer to him, then closer still, until her body heat and the good smell of her makes the hairs on his arms rise.

"I'll see you later, yes?"

"Yes." He smiles back at her and he can see that spark flare in her eyes, the one that starts out with violence and ends in sex, and his whole body stands at attention.

"It should be a quick job. I’ll call you when I’m done." He loves her best this way, in a white tank top and black cargo pants, with her eyes lit up and her mind on the game.

"Then I'll see you tonight," he says, and he kisses her because she is beautiful. She surges up against him and he almost forgets where he is - a busy parking lot at a Dublin bank - and who he is surrounded by - a full complement of IRA squaddies. He honestly doesn't care. Michael McBride would do her on the hood of the car, and she would love it, and to hell with anyone who got in his way.

But Fiona breaks the kiss off with a smile and a toss of her head, and she sashays off to do her job with a wave. That wave and a look at her ass and her hair all gold in its bun is the last time he sees her.

When he reaches McBride's flat, Card is waiting for him. Not calling on the little phone that was their general meetup, but actually in the flat. His usual poker face is a mask of worry and that makes Michael very nervous. Card never loses his poker face.

"Finally you tore yourself away," he says sarcastically, yanking out the contents of Michael's dresser and throwing them into a black duffel.

"What the hell are you doing? We're not supposed to meet like this. "

"You're made," Card says briefly. "Get your shit, you have five minutes."

Michael feels his mouth drop open. "What? But I don't-"

"Word came down half an hour ago. They know who you are, do you hear what I'm saying? Oh, forget it, you idiot. Make it two minutes. "

It takes three for Michael to put his clothes in a bag, dig out his mom's photo from the slick, smash their disposable phone, and attempt to write a note to Fiona that Card sees and grabs from him.

"No. No notes."

"I-"

"No calls, no notes. No puzzles on the back of a cereal box! You're done, Westen! She was a great lay and maybe you could have married and had a bunch of spy kids but time's up! End of the quarter! We have. To leave! " He hauls Michael by the arm, forcing him out the door of the flat and out the back way. As they peel out of the back alley in Card’s little silver car, they are passed by several black vans and in the rear view Michael sees them surrounding the flat.

Card takes them straight to the airport and around a back gate where he is waved in by some official looking gentlemen. He and Michael board a small plane which takes off immediately. They are the only two passengers aboard. When the plane is finally in the air, Card slumps into his seat, looking relieved.

“I thought for sure you’d end up with some IRA bullet between your eyes,” he says. “They won’t forget you for a long time.”

“But how did-” _I was so careful_ , he wanted to say, but it obviously wasn’t true. He hadn’t been careful enough. Somehow he hadn’t been.

“Some kind of high-ranking leak,” says Card. “You know how it is. People trade secrets for power, smash the chessboard, you gotta set up and start the whole thing again. Be glad you’re not dead.”

Michael nods, wanting the conversation to be over. He stares blindly out of the plane window, and his whole body hurts down to his bones. _It wasn’t supposed to be like this_ , his brain chants over and over. He doesn’t know what that means, whether he wasn’t supposed to leave Fiona so suddenly, or that he was never supposed to fall in love with her at all. Never supposed to hear her wicked imitations of her friends and compatriots, never supposed to watch, in awe, her concentration as she spliced the wires of a detonator together. Never supposed to lift her heavy hair from the back of her neck as she bent her head forward and hear her suck in her breath and say his name, so quietly.

His heart and his stomach hurt so much he actually bends forward in his seat, putting his head on the seat in front of him and closing his eyes so Card won’t look at him. He feels like he might literally be turning inside out: he has never, ever felt so bad before. _So this is heartbreak_ , says a curious voice in his head. _You thought you felt bad about Samantha? Or about leaving your mom and Nate? You had no idea._

They land in Frankfurt two hours later. Stone-faced, in monotone, Michael debriefs with Card, sitting at a metal card table with two Agency people. He doesn’t mention Fiona; and Card, maybe out of kindness or maybe out of self-interest, doesn’t mention her either.

“Okay, I think we have all we need,” says the first agent after she turns off the camera. She turns to her companion. “Yes?”

“Probably,” he says. “If not, we have your number. You two are headed to Moscow tomorrow. Lucky you. Russian language practice, then probably off to Bosnia. Boy, do they need help out there.”

“Get some sleep, kid.” says the lady agent, smirking. “You look like hell.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” says the man. “Ireland is like the fucking Caribbean compared to Bosnia. If you couldn’t get any sleep in Dublin, the Serbs sure’s shit gonna give you insomnia.”

Michael opens his mouth to say something –- anything, he doesn’t know what -- but Card grabs him by the arm again and yanks him out of his chair.

“Thanks for the advice, agents,” he says. “We’ll take it under advisement.”

As they hustle out the smoked-glass door and down the hallway of the CIA’s drab Frankfurt headquarters, Michael yanks his arm out of Card’s grip.

“Will you stop jerking me around like I’m a teenager?”

“I will when you get your fucking head back in the game,” says Card, and he sounds more irritable than angry. “Fucking inevitable, what was I _thinking_ , could this have been any more obvious?”

“None of this is obvious to me!” It’s as close as Michael has come to losing his temper in a very long time, and it makes Card stare at him for a long minute.

“No?” he says finally. “And I thought you were so smart. Let me help you out. Forget her. Forget her, right now, get a good night’s sleep and forget her, or get on a plane back to Langley, because otherwise we'll both end up dead.” He jabs at the button for the elevator while they stare at each other in the hallway, the fluorescent lights flickering on and off above them, the hum of normal business going on. When it comes, they ride to the fifth floor, where Michael puts his bag down in a room about the size of his training barracks, just enough for a cot, a sink, and a lamp.

Card goes to his own room, saying on the way down the hall, “You hungry? We can go get dinner.” Michael hasn’t eaten since the package of pretzels they’d thrown at him on the plane, and he is actually starving, but if he has to look at Card for one more second, he thinks he might do something very rash, so he declines dinner and closes the door quietly in Card’s face.

He washes his face in the sink, avoiding looking at himself in the scuzzy little mirror above it, and sits down on the bed. It is wearing on to evening and the sun is sinking to the horizon. Soon Fiona will come home and realize that he hadn’t called her; she will go to the flat and it will be empty like he never existed. And Card is right – Michael knows it. To send her a note or contact her in any way will jeopardize future operations and put them both in danger. But Fiona will not believe he left without a word. She will wait for some kind of sign from him. How long until she will stop waiting?

The building quietens down, the twilight deepens into night, and Michael lies on the cot staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow he will eat a hearty breakfast and smile at Card like a good little soldier. But tonight as the clock ticks past the interminable minutes, he grieves alone in the dark.  
  


**three. chechnya.**

“Always such a softie . . . I love this kid!” –-Larry, s03e13  
  
  


The Chechen nightclub has a name that is some kind of double entendre. ‘Tiny Waist’ or something. It means nothing to Michael, whose Chechen is really pretty skimpy, but when Larry heard it he laughed heartily. It is a shithole of a place, and compared to it, the clubs he had grown up with in South Beach looked like glamorous palaces. But it is packed full of people, all of whom are dancing and drinking and having an enormously good time in spite of Chechnya being a pretty Islamic country.

Michael –- Vasiliy, that is -– is wearing a wicked expensive suit and shoes that would cost a spook a month’s salary. His hair and nails are groomed within an inch of his life and he is wearing cologne. He is an oil baron’s son from Moscow with a dead father and a lot more cash than sense. He speaks, thinks, and dreams in Russian. Larry, who goes by the improbable name of Konstantin –- he doesn’t look at all like a Konstantin -– is Vasiliy’s older brother. He is the one doing all the work. Vasiliy is here to sulk and look pouty and spend money and keep an eye on who says what to whom.

They are on the top floor of the club, where a closed door renders the awful EDM downstairs a little more muted, and where all the Russian businessmen gather with their Chechen counterparts and their arm candy. Vasiliy is doing what all rich kids end up doing sooner or later – sprawling on a couch somewhere, mainlining vodka, and letting women put their hands all over him. He has learned that being a spy means that your personal space is nonexistent. You have to smile and be nonchalant while women use their fingernails on you in an extremely indecent manner.

Michael has, over the course of the last five years since he left Ireland, taken women to bed, one or two at a time, once in a while. He has never found one who doesn’t bore the shit out of him in the cold light of morning, or who doesn’t make him feel cheap when the liquor wears off. Admittedly, he doesn't let them stick around long enough to be interesting. He can’t help it. Those casual fucks violate the memory of someone who used her brain as well as her fingernails – but he cuts that thought off before it really starts and bends his head to the brunette on the right.

“Let’s go out on the roof,” she says. “I want to do a line.”

“Can’t, _kukolka_ ,” says Vasiliy, making a regretful face. “Konstantin says, business tonight, get shit-faced later.”

“Why is he so uptight?” she demands, tugging at his arm. When he resists again, she flounces off without him, the lure of cocaine being stronger than that of his company. Her name is Kamila, she is maybe nineteen, and she has a devastating habit that will probably end in her death. For cocaine, she will do just about anything. Vasiliy has turned down a blowjob in the men’s room from her, acutely uncomfortable, but lets her hang on him and talk to him. He even gives her money for drugs, just so she won’t offer her services to other men (at least when he is around). The CIA is quite strict about drugs and the doing of them, but does not seem to care how its money is spent on others. Kamila has a pointy little face and a funny way of looking at him, as if she sees something about him that everyone else has missed. She is like a little sister, which reminds him of someone he left behind, so he tries to keep her close and alive.

It is not common knowledge in the US -– most Americans would be hard-pressed to find Chechnya on a map -– but Russia and the Chechen Republic are at war. Again. Every gunrunner and arms salesperson and homegrown terrorist in the Eastern Bloc has set up shop in Grozny hoping to make some dollars or rubles from the death throes of the regime. It's a war of terminology, depending on whose government is doing the talking at the time. Terrorist, heroic resistance fighter, potato, potahto.

Konstantin and Vasiliy have been in the middle of the action for six long months, investigating first one and then another of the terror suspects/heroes the CIA is interested in. Vasiliy has eaten good food and bad food, sat in rooms so full of smoke he can smell it on his hair days later, and drunk enough vodka to float a battleship, though mostly he bribes the waiter to just fill a vodka bottle with water. The waiter's name is Florian, and he is from Poland, so he likes the extra income and doesn't care about Vasiliy being a teetotaller. (He is also an excellent eavesdropper, so excellent Vasiliy wonders if he actually works for Urząd Ochrony Państwa. Of course the CIA is not the only agency with people in Grozny.) 

The work is not always just talk, though. They have had to do wetwork twice: once sanctioned, when the CIA decided that a bomb-maker was a threat to national security, and Michael had double-tapped him in the back of the head in an abandoned Soviet trainyard; and once unsanctioned, when Larry decided that a pair of drug dealers had threatened his honor, or horned in on the competition, or something. Michael had held a gun and watched grimly out of the window while Larry took first one, then the other dealer into a back room of their own stash house and summarily dispatched them with a Ka-Bar. 

Michael hates the idea of meting out punishment without sanction, but things have gotten a little out of hand where Larry is concerned, and Michael has basically given up under the force of Larry's concentrated need to commit murder. All of Larry's vivaciousness, his energy, is a buildup of pressure that can eventually only be released by causing mayhem. Michael had joined up with the CIA under the impression that mayhem was supposed to be controlled, and justice served: it seemed like Larry had joined up many years before under a whole different set of ideas. Larry utilizes mayhem to serve a personal kind of justice that only Larry can understand, but he and Michael are both very far from home, and have only one another to depend on. So Michael generally sinks into the role, which he has played long enough that some nights he does want to protect Larry like a brother. Other nights he has to live with, and swallow, his own disgust at the situation, in order to continue with the objective that the CIA still insists on. Vasiliy and Konstantin are supposed to remain in Grozny until orders place them elsewhere; that is all. They both have jobs to do.

As the brawn and not the brains of the brotherhood, Vasiliy spends a lot of time waiting on Konstantin. He makes a lot of conversation, seemingly about nothing, that gathers personal details, likes, and dislikes of targets. Carefully, too, he does not give out too many details about himself. Which is harder than one might think, given the amount of alcohol being drunk. Hence the water. Konstantin, on the other hand, finesses wanted criminals, brokering deals and making introductions. He speaks Russian, Chechen and Chechen-accented English, so he can translate between English-speaking gunrunners and Chechen terrorists, and he does that exceptionally well, usually receiving an easy cut of the profits. He is a good-looking guy, face breaking into a smile almost constantly, and women adore him. Vasiliy has heard the headboards banging in Konstantin’s part of the house almost every night after they are done at the clubs: another release mechanism that thankfully needs a lot less cleaning up. 

Tonight Vasiliy notices without noticing that a tall, thin, blond man is watching him from the bar. It is the second night Vasiliy has noticed him watching, although he could have been watching a lot longer than that. Occasionally the blond man turns his head and looks at Konstantin, but mostly not. Vasiliy waves a wad of rubles in Florian's direction, speaks briefly to him, and the waiter takes it and moves away toward the bar. This scrutiny is making Vasiliy extremely itchy. He thinks maybe this guy has made them. 

He had brought this up to Larry last night at home, and Larry had laughed delightedly. "Kid, half the population behind the iron curtain knows me! I am a well-known guy." 

"I mean, I think he _knows_ us. From Moscow maybe." As usual, Larry had treated it like a joke. Michael honestly is not sure how he has managed to live so long and be so successful, but his methods work well for him. The best Michael can get him to promise is that he will keep an eye on the guy. Which, judging from the amount of not-looking that Konstantin is doing, was a huge lie. Like a real big brother (and Vasiliy knows from big brothers), Konstantin thinks he knows everything. 

He accepts the invitation of another girl to the dance floor and spends some time with her, watching Konstantin over her head. Konstantin is laughing again. He really does spend an ungodly amount of time laughing. Vasiliy goes back to his table and when he looks up again, the thin blond man is gone from the bar. Florian returns to him and Vasiliy bends his head over in his direction. 

"Name was Oleg Yegorov. Paid in cash, told the bartender he was from Moscow, but he didn't say anything about his business. Sorry. Maybe he'll come again tomorrow? If he does, I'll listen more closely." 

Vasiliy catches Konstantin's eye and jerks his chin toward the empty space at the bar. Konstantin cocks his head, shrugs a little, smiles that annoying _I was right, see, kid?_ smile. It's irritating and it screws with Vasiliy's concentration. He's not supposed to want to walk up and punch his brother in the nose in the middle of the nightclub. He's supposed to be loyal, submissive.

Abruptly he wonders where Kamila is and why she has been gone so long. Usually she is back by now, sweaty and blown-pupilled and ready to grind up on anyone. She does not always come to this club, but when she does, he usually has to pry her out with a crowbar and put her in a cab. 

Without really thinking about it, but with a warning bell clanging away in his head, he winds his way to the side of the room and through a small door that leads to a rickety ladder. Up the ladder is the roof, where only the junkies go. Vasiliy begins to climb.

The night is clear and not too cold for Chechnya, which means he does not immediately begin to shiver without his coat. On the roof there is a hanging light with a cage around it, a small card table, a couple chairs, six or seven glass bottles lying on the ground, and a couple editions of _Moskovskij Komsomolets_ , its splashy color graphics used as a base to chop up product. Vasiliy opens his mouth to call for Kamila and in the shadows he sees movement. 

" _Koshka_?" he says, "Are you all-" and then she moves into the light and he sees that she is not all right. She is bowed backward, pinned into place by the hand in her dark curls, and her terrified coked-out eyes are just about bugging out of her head. Behind her is the thin blond man from the bar, and Vasiliy takes one unconscious step forward and then is still.

" _Zdravstvujtye_ , Michael Westen," says the blond man. His narrowed eyes are watching Vasiliy closely. In the hand not holding Kamila's hair, he holds a pistol.

Vaisiliy laughs, all white teeth, and strolls forward to throw himself into one of the chairs, seemingly unconcerned both about the state of the filthy chair and the gun. 

"So I think you made a mistake here? I'm Vasiliy, not Michael. You do some of her coke or something? You shouldn't do that. They cut it with-"

" _Yob tvoyu mat_ , don't you lie to me!" Oleg shoves his hand downward, and Kamila drops to her knees, squeaking when they hit the concrete. "Six months ago the CIA came for us and took out half my unit in Moscow! They bled to death in the snow, you lying fuck. And whose name is in all the files? Westen, it's always Westen. Everyone says he's like a ghost . . . but look at you, a man after all. Right?" He twists the hand in Kamila's hair and she cries out again.

OK, one mystery solved: Oleg is FSB. Just hopefully not Spetsnaz trained: hopefully gaslight-able. Vasiliy holds up his hands in a 'come in peace' gesture, leaning forward, laughing again as if way more drunk than he is. "No, man, that can't be me. I was born in Mytishchi. My brother too. And six months ago I was in Petersburg doing a deal for, like, black market art. High end stuff. Looked like shit, but society ladies like what they like. One of them liked to get down on her knees in her husband's study, man. I can't even tell you what those women are into. You would not believe me." He grins widely, comrade to comrade. 

"You're a lying son of a bitch," snarls Oleg, but Michael can see it in his eyes, that tiny bit of uncertainty. Oleg is thinking maybe he was wrong, that maybe he made a mistake and found the wrong guy. Of course, a bigger part is thinking just to shoot them both and walk away. The good part of this is, Larry wasn't on that op six months ago, and that's something Michael can use. 

"So my brother can vouch for me, you know? He was with me in Petersburg. Konstantin. Handsome guy, laughs a lot? You saw him, right? He's downstairs. You want to go down with me, get a drink?" He gestures toward the ladder, and in the split second when Oleg looks over in consideration, he drives forward with his whole body toward Oleg's gun hand. 

All three of them go backward, hitting the gritty concrete with a scrape. The gun flies out of Oleg's hand and goes off, spitting the bullet into the air. Oleg lets go of Kamila's hair and begins wrestling in earnest with Michael. He is very strong. He flips them both over and they roll across the roof and then Michael really is fighting for his life as Oleg gets an arm-bar across his throat. He gets in a couple of kidney punches and then Oleg pins his full weight down, panting hot breath into Michael's ear. In a leather scabbard strapped to his arm, Michael has a switchblade, but he can't seem to get it to fall out into his hand. Mostly because he is running out of air. 

There is a crash of glass then and Oleg topples off him with a howl. Kamila, tears running down her face and body bent double, has hit Oleg over the head with a vodka bottle and all her might. Michael rolls over in a haze of red and black dots, scrabbles at his arm until the knife drops down, and flicks the blade open. Without hesitating, he climbs onto Oleg's back and sinks the knife to the hilt in Oleg's neck right under his skull. There is quite a bit of twitching but he rides it out until Oleg stops breathing. His mind has gone almost completely blank: he is a physical being only. He pulls the knife from Oleg's neck, ignoring the blood and the sound of it. Then he hears a stifled gasp and looks up sharply. Kamila is staring at Oleg's still body, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. 

He knows what he ought to do next. He has done it before. If Larry were here, he'd be saying it out loud. _She's a witness, kid. She saw you murder someone. She heard your real name! No one will miss a stupid junkie. Get rid of her. Quick and easy, no muss, no fuss._

Breathing hard, he stares at Kamila. She is standing still in her torn dress, hand over her mouth, making no sound. For once, she looks completely sober. She takes one step backward away from Oleg's body, starts at the noise of her own shuffle, and her gaze flies to Michael's. Staring into her dark, panicked eyes, he hears his mother's voice instead of Larry's.

_That's enough, Michael_ , she says, and he takes a deep breath and pictures her, standing in the doorway of his childhood house, hand on her hip, the golden Miami sunlight filtering through the trees and gilding her hair. He feels the weight of every long year away from her, and the ache in his back, the scrapes on his hands. He takes another breath and folds the knife up and puts it away in its scabbard; then he stands up, wincing. "What a clusterfuck," he says in English. Then he switches back to Russian.

"Help me out, Kamila," he says, and after looking at him again for a moment she helps him drag Oleg's body to the alley-side of the roof and ease him over the side. She turns away as he goes tumbling to the dark, unoccupied sidewalk below. 

"Wait," he says as she hurries toward the ladder, and she stops with her back to him. Michael sighs, then takes out his wallet. In it is about three hundred dollars, which is about ten thousand rubles. He gives her the whole thing, folding it into her hand, and when she shakes her head at him, he shakes his back, steps back, and lets her go. She does not thank him, but she does not drop the money, and she climbs carefully down and out of sight. He sighs again. 

Kamila will not come back to this nightclub, and she will get sober, but Michael will never know that, because he and Larry report in and when Michael mentions Oleg, they get new orders and exfiltrate the next night on a Moscow-bound convoy, leaving all their work behind. Larry spends the whole ride alternatively excoriating Michael for his laxness and laughing at him for his (edited, non-Kamila-involved) version of the story.

"Wish I could have seen it, kid. I love watching you handle problems. Knife to the back of the skull! That is so old fashioned! Why do you get all the fun?"

"I don't ever want to have a problem like that again," says Michael. "It's getting so too many people know my face around here."

"Well, the bosses implied you might be seeing somewhere hot for a change," grins Larry. "Where do you think we're headed next?" 

"No idea," says Michael, sighing.

"I could use a place that doesn't freeze my balls off every time I go outside."

Michael sighs again. He'd rather go to the gates of Hell by himself than anywhere else with Larry: however, he won't get a choice. Operatives might be the sneakiest pieces on the board, but they still aren't the players and they never will be. He leans his head back on the rattly side of the convoy truck and half-dozes, parka hood covering half his face, hands twitching, dreaming of home.

\--end--

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, the Russian & Polish terms used:
> 
> kukolka: doll  
> Urząd Ochrony Państwa: Formerly, the Polish intelligence service. In 2002 it was renamed Agencja Wywiadu.  
> Moskovskij Komsomolets: Russian tabloid newspaper  
> Koshka: cat (in this context)  
> Zdravstvujtye: formal hello  
> Yob tvoyu mat: lit., 'fuck your mother.' If you want to spend an afternoon, look up the history of mat, which is Russian's (banned) cursing language. Those Russians know how to get it done.  
> FSB: Russia's Federal Security Service, the successor to the KGB  
> Spetsnaz: Russian special forces


End file.
